


Somewhere Cold And Caked With Snow

by Distracted



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot Spencer Whump, Eliot kicks ass, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Protective Team, Team Bonding, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: A new case stirs up old memories for Eliot. Memories he'd much rather forget. With a life on the line and a mark to take down, he's forced to confront them. Can he finally lay those demons to rest?
Relationships: Eliot Spencer & Team Leverage
Comments: 40
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I've been sitting on this one for a few weeks. It's not what I typically post. It's on the heavier end of what I write. 
> 
> Mentions of past rape and sexual abuse. Nothing overly detailed or graphic but there are some flashbacks.
> 
> Also if you feel like commenting on this I'd really appreciate the feedback. I'm feeling pretty nervous about this one, if I'm honest. 
> 
> Thank you 😊

Somewhere Cold And Caked With Snow

Chapter One

  
  


"No," Eliot says flatly, and they all turn to look at him. "I'm not doing it, Nate. Find another way." He's pretty sure it's the first time he's flat out refused a con, but what they're asking him to do is too much, hits too close to things he'd much rather keep buried. 

"This might be the only way to get the proof," Nate says, locking eyes with the other man. He knows what buttons to push, how to phrase a request so he gets the result he wants, but he’s holding off, waiting to see if the hitter gets there himself. There’s a wary defiance in the other man’s eyes that Nate has never seen before, and as big of a bastard as he is, it gives him pause and the moment breaks. 

"Then turn it over to the cops," Eliot snaps and turns, walking out of the briefing. It's the first time he's done that, too, and he can feel the eyes on him all the way to the door. 

He needs to hit something and heads to the small open space where he hung a heavy bag, stripping off his hoodie and letting it drop to the floor. Normally he'd glove up, protect his hands, but he needs to feel something that isn't the swirling mass of emotions in his chest making his breath catch, and he swings, bare handed, until he's clinging to the bag to stay on his feet, knuckles a screaming mass of blood and pain, sweat coating every inch of his body. 

A small noise from behind him has him twisting, battered fists coming up by reflex. It's Sophie and he lets his hands drop, feeling mildly disgusted with himself in more ways than one. She's carrying a couple of ice packs and a long neck of his favourite beer, takes in the sight of his hands with a lift of her eyebrow and offers him the bottle. 

He takes it, twisting off the cap with shaking fingers and swallows a long swig, feeling stuck, the story burning like a living thing inside of him. He knows none of them will ask, directly, just like he knows this is an offering to talk, if he feels like sharing. He drops onto the bench hard enough to rattle the floor and takes one of the ice packs she's left between them, ignoring his hands and dumping it on his left shoulder which brings his thoughts neatly full circle. 

"Put your earbud in," he says, a trifle unsteadily, because he's only telling this story once and he can't do it in front of all of them. His shoulder aches, and he rubs it absently, thinking about where - _how_ \- to start talking. 

She nods, eyes dark, and slips the earbud into place. "You don't have to tell us anything you're not comfortable with, Eliot," she says, arm twitching like she wants to reach for him but isn't sure what would happen if she did. Isn’t sure if he’d welcome her touch or try to hide from it. Hell, he's not sure himself. 

"It's okay," he says, flexing his hands, even though it isn't. The memories are going to burn him regardless and maybe by sharing, he can control how scorched he gets. The throb in his shoulder is getting worse and he switches the ice packs. _Shattered clavicle. Dislocated shoulder._ He's read somewhere that you can't remember pain, but he's not sure that's true. There's always an echo of it, carved deep into bones and muscle and skin and that never goes away. "One of my last missions for-" he trails off, because the where and when don't really matter and he's avoided talking about that bit of his life for a reason. Too much of it is classified and he doesn't have the mental energy to sift through what's safe to tell and what isn't. The beer is tasteless as he takes another swig, rolling his shoulders. "We were captured," he starts simply. "They shot the helo up and we had to make an emergency landing. They were all over us before we could do anything. Small team, and we didn’t stand a chance against their numbers." 

It had been cold, snowflakes the size of pennies falling out of the sky, the howling wind burning his face, turning his skin into a raw, chapped mess. Flames behind him, as the helo burned, and death in front, as masked, armed men forced him down into the snow, binding his arms behind his back so tightly the pain from his shattered shoulder had ripped him away from his body. He’d woken in snapshots. The back of a van, bouncing over a rutted road. Gates, topped with razor wire. A hallway, carved into stone, lit by a single swinging bulb, bright in his eyes as they dragged him deeper into the complex. 

He risks a glance up, sees the worried expression on her face and wants to stop talking, not weigh them down with pain from his past. He can't though, because he's too far in, and he owes them the full story. "They took us back to their compound for interrogation." He pauses, swallowing, and scrubs a shaking hand over his face. He knows the story is in his file, his medical records, but he's never told it to anyone he cares about, or who cares about him, past what he can do for their team. "Two of my team died in the first day we were there," he says simply and listens to her swallow, hard. "They split us up, threw me in a cell-" _a tiny space, walls running with damp, cold enough to make his breath plume in the air as he panted, shoulder and ribs and leg on fucking fire from his injuries-_ "I'm not sure how long the others lasted, but they tortured me for eleven days before they figured out _pain_ wasn’t-" the words shudder to a stop and he rests his elbows on his knees, letting his head hang, waiting for the hammering in his chest to slow before he starts talking again, softer this time. "They… after that they changed tactics, started using my own body against me… They-" he can't force the words out past the lump in his throat and balls his hands into fists, focusing on the pain in his knuckles because he's dangerously close to losing what little control he has left. 

"They raped you," Sophie says, voice agonised, and has to choke back a sob. There’s a tremble in his lip that she’s never seen before, matched by the shake in his hands, and his eyes are shadowed, gaze turned inwards and far away. 

Hearing the words breaks something in him. "Well, yeah, you could say that," he says, voice so rough she can barely make out the individual words. "Took the rescue team another seven days to get there because of the snow, and I never spent one of them alone." 

He gets his hand up too late to catch the first salty slip down his cheek and watches it darken a spot on the knee of his jeans. The second joins it, and he bites his lip, sniffs hard, trying to get some kind of control back but it’s too late. The floodgates have opened and the pain building behind them is finally finding an escape. He couldn’t stop it now any more than he could stop a train with a spool of thread. 

_There are hands touching him in places he absolutely doesn't want to be touched. He's bound, beaten, drugged, and helpless against the stimulation and his hand jerks, hitting the end of the cuffs hard enough to draw blood. The pressure changes, getting more intense, and it feels amazing and awful at the same time. He gasps as the grasp gets even more intimate, as something presses into him, tearing and burning and-_

Warm, real hands cup his face and it’s all he can do not to lash out but the touch is gentle, the scent of jasmine rather than blood filling his nose and it shatters the memory. His breath hitches, chest burning, and it’s all too fucking much so he doesn’t even try to resist when she wraps her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his neck. It’s a weakness, and knows it but he doesn't have the will or energy to fight it, just bows to the sorrow and the horror and the pain he’d buried and lets it wash out of him in a wave of silent tears. There's surrender there, and it feels like the first one for a long time. It's a terrifying feeling, like he's falling without a safety line and he gasps, tries to wrestle back some control but it's no use. His emotions have been thrust far beyond the tipping point and he can do nothing to stop the wave slamming into him. 

_There's a knife at his throat, edge razor sharp, and the blade knicks him when another set of hands force his legs open, fingers working into him so roughly that he jerks, crying out, the knife slicing his skin again so blood trickles down his chest. The other man grunts, already hard, and yanks his fingers free, wringing a hoarse scream from him as his captor thrusts, every move agony… He cuts himself four more times before his captor rolls off him with a satisfied grunt._

Sophie clings onto him as he comes apart in her arms, so silent only the spreading wetness on her blouse gives him away. He's shaking hard enough to rattle them both, one hand pressing bruise hard against her ribs. His chest heaves and she runs her fingers up and down his back, offering what little comfort she can. A choked sob rips from his throat and she reaches up to turn her earbud off. The rest of the team have heard enough. They don't need to hear this, too. His ribs heave under her hands as another rough sob forces its way out of him. It sounds like it's ripping him apart, and she guesses that's not too far from the truth. 

It takes minutes for the wave to peak, for the tears to slow and he sits back, keeping his gaze down, eyes red rimmed and so bloodshot they're more pink than blue. His lashes are clumpy and he blinks long, swiping his hand over his face. There's more of the story to tell but he's not sure he has the words, the energy to get it out. They know the worst of it, and maybe that's enough because there's a look in her eyes that he can't quite figure out and it makes him want to hide. 

Hardison breaks the moment by skidding around the corner, laptop in his hand, brow furrowed. "Hey man," he says, holding his free hand out for their customary slap-slap-bump, noticing the state of Eliot's hands too late to stop. 

The other man freezes for just a second, like he's waiting to see if Hardison is going to bring up his little breakdown, then exhales hard, slapping his palm against the hacker's. He's not sure which one of them is more surprised when Hardison hangs on, fingers closing carefully around the damaged knuckles. "I'm real sorry what happened to you, Eliot," he says and gulps, eyes stinging at the lost expression on their hitter's face. "Would punching a really bad fucker make you feel better?" he asks, and lets go. "Cause I found a way to nail the bastard without using you as bait."

Some nameless tension bleeds out of Eliot as he hears the bait plan is firmly off the table. He's pretty sure it had been since he stormed out of the meeting, but having another option lifts a bit of the weight on his shoulders. 

"Fuck yeah," he says, wincing at the soreness in his throat. "I'll catch up," he tells Hardison and the hacker nods, heading back to the briefing room. He stands, feeling exhausted and vaguely ill, and presses a kiss to Sophie's temple, wishing he was better with words so he could thank her properly. "Thank you," he says simply, forcing himself to meet her eyes when he'd much rather not. 

"Anytime," she says, holding out a hand so he can help her up, remembering just in time to grab his wrist rather than his hands. He takes a step back, pulling her smoothly to her feet, and tips his head towards the bathroom. She nods and heads towards the briefing room. 

He ducks into the bathroom, locking the door and splashing cold water on his face. There's a dull headache spreading from the base of his neck, and his hands sting from the splits in his skin. He lets the sink fill with cold water and eases his hands in, avoiding the mirror so he won't catch sight of his reflection. He's not sure he'd like what he sees, if he does. It takes him a moment to get his breath steady again before he turns and leaves the bathroom, heading up to the briefing room. Grim determination keeps him going, because getting to punch a predatory rapist in the face sounds exactly what he needs right now. He flexes his hands, and thinks _bring it on_. 

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Parker is waiting for him outside of the bathroom, shoulders hunched as she leans against the wall. Her gaze drops to his hands, and he has to quell the urge to hide them, tuck them away, because the damage is a physical sign of just how much the case- and everything it had dragged up- has got to him. 

"Did they die?" she asks quietly, and glances at his face, mouth folding into a straight line. "The people who captured you. Did they die?" 

He nods, once, sharply, because of all the questions he expected her to ask, it wasn't that. "Yeah, I think so. I wasn't- I didn't..." 

_His blood is boiling in his veins and he twists, desperately seeking some relief from the heat. The cuts on his throat, his chest, his arms, are infected and they pulse in time with his heart. The medics aren't taking any chances and strap him to a backboard which makes his broken ribs throb, sends a raging torrent of liquid pain through his shattered shoulder, through his injured leg. There are hands touching him, everywhere, and even though he knows they're there to help, he can’t help but flinch away from them. Every move they make sends a crashing wave of agony through him until one finds a vein and starts an IV, hitting him with a dose of morphine that sends him into blessed oblivion-_

"Good," Parker says, voice soft and thick, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’s not quite making herself small, but it’s a close thing, and his palms itch with the urge to make her stop. "Does it make me a bad person that I'm glad?" 

He's not sure how to answer that, because he's killed too many people, directly and indirectly and he can count on both hands how many he's glad are no longer breathing. The bastards who broke him are high on that list. "No," he says, gently. “It's natural to want the people who hurt you punished.” The fact she wants them punished because they hurt _him_ makes something deep inside of him ache. It’s his _job_ to take the hits, even if this one happened long before they met.

"Good," she says again and lets her arms drop. There's anger, savage, but banked in her voice and it makes something in his chest feel terribly tender, because he's not used to having people around him who care for him as a _person_ and not just an asset, a weapon to aim and fire at whatever problem needs dismantling. It’s as unsettling as it is comforting, and he’s not quite sure what to do with the emotion. 

"Sophie says that you might need a hug but I should ask first," Parker says, hands balled into fists. "Can I give you a hug, Eliot?" 

The sudden lump in his throat robs him of his voice, and he nods, once, feeling his eyes burn as he blinks back useless tears. He's cried more in the last few hours than he has in years and tears are meant to be healing but all he feels is exhausted, _raw_ and he knows he's going to need time to get his armour back into place. If it'll even fit anymore, because he's pretty sure getting those words out moved the tectonic plates inside of him, caused a seismic shift and he's not sure how that's going to play out. 

Her arms go around him and he lets himself lean on her, just a little, the smell of tangerine shampoo filling his senses, such a normal, everyday, _clean_ scent that the lurking demons in his mind shrink a bit. 

_The ward smells of pine disinfectant and blood and pain. He's healing, slowly, one surgery behind him to straighten and pin his shattered clavicle, another ahead of him once he’s stronger to fix the rest of the damage. The other injuries are healing, slowly, now that the infection is under control. He's lucky, they tell him, to have gotten the bed by the window, but the bleak view outside does little to lift his spirits. There's a lone tree, stripped of leaves, black branches reaching into the sky like a beseeching hand and every time he looks at it, all he can think of is his own hands, splayed against the table, the wall, the floor as someone cuts him, thrusts into him, uses him and-_

"Damn it, I did it wrong, didn't I?" she mutters and pats his back again. He’s shaking, each breath heavy and thick, almost a sob and it makes her want to stab something, to smash their most prized belongings into tiny shards, to _hurt them,_ as much as they hurt him. She knows if asked, he’d describe himself as damned, as a bad person, but that’s in the past and she trusts him on a level she doesn’t quite share with the others. 

He blinks, a little lost until he realises she means the hug and clears his throat. "No, darlin', you did it just right." 

Her arms tighten around him as she peers up at his face. "But you're still so sad," she says. 

"Don't worry, I'll feel better real soon." He presses a kiss to the top of her head and steps out of the hug, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. He has a headache that could drop a moose in rut. 

It makes him wonder, sometimes, just how he's managed to hook up with a crew of people who all genuinely care about each other. There's a terrible anxiety to it for him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, the _punchline_ to be revealed, because he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be around such decent - if flawed - people. He'll protect them with his body, paying for his sins in his own blood, and hope that's enough to keep this thing going just a little longer. To earn him a few more months of peace and comfort that he hasn’t known since he stepped on the bus to serve his country, changing by inches until he had become someone he didn’t like very much, and worse, didn’t recognise any more. Working with the team is reversing that, he thinks, slowly turning him back into his better self.

He leads the way to the briefing room, finding Nate staring down into a full glass, a bottle at his side that's already half empty. Sophie and Hardison are arguing quietly over a stack of take out menus. 

“Thai, Chinese, or Indian?” Sophie asks, holding up the glossy sheets. It’s an invitation, back to a more normal standing, and he latches onto it desperately, crossing to sit next to her. Parker tags along next to him, leaning over to fish through the leaflets. 

“Pizza?” she asks and holds up the menu. “Betty’s was pretty good, last time.” 

Hardison snatches it out of her hand and sets it down, out of her reach. “They took _two hours_ to deliver,” he gripes. “I’ll have starved to death by then. No thank you.”

Eliot spots the menu to his favourite place, gaze lingering on it. It’s a tiny hole in the wall that serves homestyle food, and their tomato rice soup is almost as good as what his Mama used to make. He knows the others generally prefer more exotic food, and his emotions are still so raw that the prospect of even a mild disagreement makes the words stick behind his teeth, makes anxiety curl in his gut. It’s not a feeling that he’s used to and that alone is unsettling. 

Sophie’s gaze flicks from his fingers, resting lightly on the menu to his face, and she blinks, reaching over to tug the paper out from under his grasp. “I haven’t tried this one,” she says blandly, which he knows is a lie, because he can remember teasing her over the chicken fried steak they sell. 

He presses his lips together, caught between annoyance and gratitude at the mother henning, but he’s willing to go along with it, if it means he gets the soup he’s craving. 

Parker leans against him, pouting a little, and he nudges her with his elbow. “They have pancakes,” he says, feeling just a tiny bit more stable, like the earthquake is finally starting to ebb, leaving him on more solid ground. 

“With syrup?” She nudges him back, more gently than usual, but it’s another step back to feeling more comfortable in his skin. 

“If not, there’s some in the kitchen,” he admits, and smiles, a little, at the expression on her face. He’d refused to have it in the building for months, then caved after the relentless pleading and pouting from their thief and hacker, sneaking a bottle in, safely hidden behind the herbs and spices no-one else touched.

“As long as they don’t take two frickin’ hours to deliver, I’m in,” Hardison says, leaning over to snag the menu. “Banana stuffed french toast. Hell yes.” He slides the paper back to Sophie who picks it up, watching Eliot under her lashes. 

The shell shocked look has started to ease, and while his shoulders are tight, she’s seen worse, knows that the company and food will do more to ease any lingering aftershocks than all the words in the world. He’s a complicated man, even if he looks straightforward on first glance, and actions are the way to win him over, not chatter, not meaningless platitudes that he’ll see straight through, because for all he tries to hide it, there’s a sharp mind under all the good old boy bluster. 

“Nate,” Sophie calls, and he looks up, ambling over to the table, walk surprisingly steady despite the amount of liquor he’s downed since Eliot’s tortured confession had played in his ear. 

“Mediterranean omelette,” he says after a glance at the menu and sits at the table, next to Sophie, watching Eliot as he stacks the menus with neat, precise motions. The man looks like hell, hands battered, shadows under his eyes standing out against his chalky skin, and there’s enough good left in Nate to admit he feels bad for causing the other man so much pain, even unwittingly. He’d known about the torture, because if you carry out the kinds of missions Eliot did, capture is just one of the outcomes. The sexual abuse is another thing altogether, and he’s kicking himself for not thinking about it sooner. 

Eliot looks up, catching Nate’s eyes, guessing at his thoughts from the look on his face, and steels himself, because he’s not really sure if he wants to know. “So what’s the plan?” he grates out.

Sophie stands, moving away from the table to order, and Nate waits until she comes back to tell them. He can practically feel the impatience coming from Eliot, but it’s cut with something else, a kind of anxiety that makes sense but he hates to see from their hitter. 

“Hardison,” Nate says, and nods. “Fill us in.”


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three 

Hardison gets one good look at Eliot as he stands and makes his way to the screens and decides to change the plan on the fly. The dark haired man looks exhausted, weary down to his bones, brow furrowed into a frown that means he has a splitting headache and it makes Hardison feel weirdly protective. He can feel Nate's glare but decides to ignore it. They can afford a few hours to rest and get themselves right before starting the job. _Eliot's had enough hurt for one day,_ the hacker thinks. _Might be his job to keep us safe, but that don't mean we can't keep him safe, too._

"So in the morning, we go in, posing as clients of his catering business. He runs it out of the hotel which gives us access to his office and the safe where he stores all his nasty little secrets." He paused, because he knows that the next bit is going to hit Eliot hard, then licks his lips and continues. "It looks like he's been recording video of the victims while he…" his voice falters. "While he abuses them. We're going to get those and turn them over to the police." 

It's a simple plan, but Hardison has been round the block enough times to know that no plans survives contact with the enemy. There's always variables they don't know and can't account for, always something popping up out of the woodwork to skew the plan onto a new track. It's just part of the job now and they're getting better at improvising but damn it, he wants this one to go right, wants to nail the bastard before this case breaks Eliot any more because he's honestly not sure the team will survive the shock wave if their hitter goes down. 

The others are all nodding and he knows that they'll all play their parts in the morning. Eliot is frowning, fingers flexing absently, gaze distant and it takes all of Hardison's self control not to ask him if he's alright. It's a particularly pointless question when the answer is so damn clear on his face, his posture, so Hardison swallows the words. 

Nate sighs, apparently giving in, and heads back towards his bottle. "Okay, guys, go home, get some sleep. We'll meet up here in the morning to run over any final details."

Sophie drops her take out containers in the trash and grabs her coat, pausing to glance at Eliot as she buttons up, wrapping a scarf the size of a small blanket around her neck. 

He's still sitting at the table, head bent towards Parker as she rants about how crap the hotel's security system is, but his eyes are pensive, posture radiating exhaustion and so she decides to stage a rescue. 

"Parker," she calls, "Want to ride with me?" They live vaguely in the same direction, and with the weather how it is, Sophie has no intention of walking anywhere. They can share a cab. 

"Sure!" Parker says, and hops up, then pauses, turning back to Eliot. "You still look sad. Can I give you another hug?" 

He swallows hard and nods, one quick dip of his chin, bracing himself because she's not gentle this time, but it's strangely okay, because he's not sure he can take being handled with kid gloves right now anyway. Her fingers press, bruise hard, into his sides and he leans into the pressure, letting it ease the ache in his chest. She steps back, nodding at him and follows Sophie out of the door. 

"Want a ride, man?" Hardison asks, resting his hip on the table. "I know you love your car, but it ain't going anywhere tonight." 

"Sure," Eliot says, and something in that quiet acquiescence sends a tinge of alarm through Hardison. Eliot has never been one to agree to something so easily and Hardison hates seeing the hurt, careful look he's carrying, like he has his hand clamped to some terrible injury and he might just bleed out if he moves wrong. 

Nate's vanished into his bedroom so they walk out together, in a silence that's only a little uncomfortable. It's snowing heavily when they get outside and Eliot shudders, because it reminds him violently of the _other_ place and he has to close his eyes, forcing slow breaths through his nose before he gets the tremor under control. He can feel Hardison hovering next to him, can tell that the other man is desperate to offer some kind of comfort. That's not what he needs- normality is, but he's not sure how to say that without sounding like an ungrateful jerk. 

Hardison catches it, somehow and blows out an exaggerated sigh. "I hate snow," he grouses as they slog through the car park towards Lucille. The van's shrouded in snow and they sigh in unison. "I really, really hate fricking show," he says as he opens the van doors and reaches in for the snow broom and ice scraper. 

His tone pulls a tired but amused grunt from Eliot, and the sound eases some nameless tension in Hardison's gut. 

"I liked it, before-" Eliot pauses and shakes his head. "We'd get five, six, maybe seven inches most winter storms. There's not much to do in a small town in winter, so all the kids would work together to make snow forts. We made an igloo one year. I wanted to sleep in it, but my Mom wouldn't let me," he says, tone soft, reflective, battered hands methodically sweeping snow from the windows. "Damn good thing, too. Woke up the next morning and the whole thing had collapsed." He huffs a quiet laugh. "Probably would have killed me." He's silent for a moment, voice so soft when he speaks again Hardison almost doesn't catch the words. "She died, that winter. Drunk driver in a truck ran her car off the road and into a tree." 

"How old were you?" Hardison asks. 

"Fourteen," Eliot says and swipes his gloved hand over his face. 

Hardison freezes, heart clenching at the quiet pain in the other man's voice. "I'm sorry, man. That's a real damn shame," he says, knowing that the words are inadequate, knowing that Eliot is giving him a gift by sharing the details. "Nana would have liked her, I think. I dunno how she did it, but she kept a house full of kids fed and dressed and mostly in one piece, even when we tried something stupid."

Eliot nods, swallowing hard, and lets the broom drop. "Yeah, it was." Her death had changed everything. He'd had a life mapped out for him, one that didn't involve pain and violence and shredding his soul bit by bit just to finish the next job. It had all vanished in the time it had taken the cop to say the words _I'm so sorry for your loss_ , blown away like dust. It's in the past and normally he doesn't let himself dwell on it, but it creeps up sometimes, when his guard is down, just how much he lost that day. He shakes his head, chasing away the memories of baking smells, dark hair, curly in the rain, and a laugh filled with love. "I think we're good to go," he says, and drops the broom back into the van, hoping Hardison hasn't caught the rough edge to his voice. The cold and effort has made his hands ache again and he tucks them in his coat pockets. 

"About freaking time," Hardison says, and claps Eliot on the shoulder on his way to the driver's seat. "Let's blow this popsicle stand." 

The roads are dark and quiet and they make good time, despite Hardison's overly careful driving. They turn onto Eliot's street and Hardison brakes hard enough to make the van skid a little. 

"What the hell?" the hacker mutters, staring at the mess of flashing lights. Three fire trucks, flanked by a couple of police cars and an ambulance, are all parked at a jaunty angle to the curb. 

An officer, swaddled in a heavy coat and hat, spots the van and walks towards them, rolling his hand in the universal sign to put the window down. Hardison hits the button, wincing as freezing air replaces the warmth of the van. 

"Street's closed, I'm afraid. You're going to have to go around," the officer says blandly, like it's the twentieth time he's said it so far. 

"What's going on, officer?" Eliot asked. "I own 334. Any chance I can get in tonight?" 

"House a couple of doors up from you caught fire." He shrugs, shakes his head. "I can let you past but there's no power, and no water to the whole block. If you have anywhere else to stay it's probably a good idea. If not, they're setting up an emergency shelter at the school." 

Hardison shakes his head, settling the issue before Eliot can draw a breath to protest. "I have a spare room. You're welcome to it." He turns back to the window. "Thanks, officer. We'll get out of your way."

Eliot slumps back in the seat, blowing out an aggrieved sigh. "You better have beer, man," he says, feeling the headache he's had since Nate announced the first plan bite a little deeper. He scrubs a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck. "And none of that weird crap." 

Hardison thinks about the contents of his fridge and frowns. "We better make a stop." 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

Hardison wakes, to a dark and silent house, heart pounding like Parker has just pushed him off a building. He blinks at the clock- _3:34am_ \- not sure what woke him until the sound repeats again. It's a muffled cry, terrible in its pain, and it lifts the hairs on his arms because the only time he's heard close to that noise was when he'd hit a deer on a job and broken its back. It had made the same kind of wounded cry until Eliot had dispatched it, skillfully. _Maybe an animal got in and it's hurt,_ he thinks, even though his rational brain knows exactly how unlikely that is. Still, he fumbles on the nightstand until he finds his phone and brings up the cameras, flipping through feeds and seeing nothing out of place. 

The loft is silent and he shakes his head, flopping back against his pillows, eyes closing until he hears the noise again. This time, the noise makes a sickening amount of sense. _Eliot,_ he thinks, _fuck. Nightmare, and it sounds like a bad one._ He flips the covers off and slides out of bed, padding barefoot to the guest room. The loft is chilly and he rubs his arms as he walks, glancing out of the window to see that the snow is still coming down. 

He eases the door open and leans into the room, staying well away from the bed, because the last thing he wants is to spook Eliot. He's pretty sure that the other man would never hurt him, deliberately, but the instincts to protect himself are written bone deep, woven through every fibre of his being, and Hardison doesn't want to trigger them accidentally. The blinds are open and there's just enough ambient light to see the bed and it's sole occupant. Eliot is flat on his back, one arm under the pillow, the other by his side, the blankets hopelessly twisted around his hips and legs. The grey t-shirt he's wearing is damp with sweat, along with his hair, which is clinging to his face in loose curls. 

The sight makes something in Hardison's gut clench hard, protectiveness welling up inside of him along with anger at the bastards who did this to his friend. He wants to wake the other man, but holds himself back, remembering a conversation they had the first time they shared a room. 

_Eliot had been hesitant, dropping his bag on one of the beds, slowly turning towards Hardison. "I have nightmares, sometimes," he'd said, simply. "You don't have to wake me or anythin', just let me be. I normally don't even really remember them." The corner of his mouth had quirked up in a half smile. "Probably best you don't try, actually. My reflexes come awake before my brain, sometimes."_

_Hardison had nodded, feeling the trust infused in those words. "It gets too bad, I'll throw a shoe at you, or something," he joked, then changed the subject before either of them got too uncomfortable. "Wanna grab some food? The burger place next door looked pretty decent."_

_Eliot had nodded, and they'd reached an understanding. He'd seen the other man have a couple of nightmares, even had a few of his own, and they'd never talked about it. Never felt the need. It was just something that happened, if you saw- did- enough bad shit._

_But this is something different,_ Hardison thinks, because he's fairly certain that it's not just sweat on the other man's cheeks, not just sweat clumping his eyelashes. It's an unsettling discovery, and he speaks before he can stop himself. 

"Eliot!" he draws it out into three syllables, voice low, but firm, like he does when he wants the hitter's attention on coms, and watches as the other man twitches, coming awake in stages. That's unusual enough, because normally, he wakes instantly, brain hardwired for it after years of combat. 

"Hardison?" Eliot asks, voice so rough and muddled he sounds nothing like himself. He swipes the hair back from his face with a shaking hand, looking around like he's not quite sure where he is and sits up, slowly, one hand lifting to cup his left shoulder, fingers rubbing absently, like the joint hurts. 

Hardison knows the terror behind that, remembers waking in a new foster home, barely able to remember who'd taken him in this time. It had changed, once he'd met Nana, but the feeling still hides at the back of his mind and he can only guess that it must be worse for Eliot, because waking somewhere unknown could only usually mean bad things. "You're okay, dude. Just a nightmare. You're in my spare room cause your dumbass neighbour set his kitchen on fire trying to deep fry a turkey." He's sure Eliot isn't taking in any details, but the sound of his voice seems to be relaxing the other man, so he keeps talking. “I mean, who does that inside? What a dumbass.” 

"Fuck," Eliot says distinctly, as reality starts to slot back into place. He's chilled and straightens the blankets, dragging them over his legs. "Sorry, man. Didn't mean to wake you."

Hardison shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," he says and leans against the door frame. “You wanna talk about it?"He's not sure what answer he's expecting, or which one he wants. It had been hard enough to listen to Eliot's choked confession over coms. He's not sure how either of them will fare if they go for a second round. It’s cowardly of him, he knows, but he can’t help it, can’t help wanting to pull back, give the other man privacy, if he wants it.

Eliot shakes his head. "There's not really anything to talk about," he says slowly, well aware of how fucking vulnerable he is… It's only bearable because it's _Hardison,_ who has saved his ass on more than one occasion. "It's mostly sensations," he says, and the word curls his lip in a snarl. “Just disconnected bits. I wasn't-” He licks his lips. “I wasn’t really… After a certain point, your brain stops remembering the details.” The faint, remembered taste of blood floods his mouth and he swallows. “I was pretty out of it, towards the end,” he finally manages to get out, voice carefully flat, but it can’t hide the implications behind the words, that he’d been so badly hurt he’d barely been conscious when the rescue team found him. 

Hardison swallows hard as he thinks about how many _sensations_ someone could fit in the days Eliot had been held. It makes his stomach feel sour, makes bile rise in his throat, and he chokes it all back because of the fucking lost look on the older man's face. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, and _tell me how to make this right,_ because he’s not just a hacker but a fixer; he’s used to finding a solution for all the problems the team brings to him. But there’s no fixing this- as much as he’d love a time machine, he doesn't have one yet, can’t reach back into Eliot’s past and undo the harm that was done to him, and that hurts. “Tell me what you need,” he says, instead, and watches Eliot shudder. 

Truth be told, Eliot isn’t sure what he needs. He’s craving physical contact and repelled by it at the same time, exhausted and strangely wired, starving and vaguely nauseous. “You want pancakes?” he asks, because as much as he wants more sleep, he’s pretty damn sure it just isn’t going to happen and the thought of cooking something simple, something he’s made a thousand times before, soothes something in his soul. 

“I’ll even break out the good syrup,” Hardison says, and waits while Eliot extracts himself from the tangled blankets and sheets. 

He grabs his overnight bag and pulls out a clean t-shirt and hoodie, pausing when he realises that Hardison is still leaning in the doorway, feeling weirdly shy about changing in front of the other man. 

“You want me to go-” Hardison asks, pointing over his shoulder at the hallway, and Eliot shakes his head. 

_Get a fucking grip,_ he thinks to himself, and strips off the damp t-shirt, tossing it on the bed, knowing that he can’t let this become a big thing in his mind. Knows he can't give the unease a foothold, because that how it takes over. The light picks out the faint silver scar over his shoulder and he swipes his free hand over it, convinced he can feel the metal plate, like it weighs a hundred pounds and it’s pulling him off balance. A stab of remembered pain shoots through him, and he yanks the t-shirt on with more force than he needs, because he’s getting sick of feeling the way he is. He adds the hoodie, and looks over, forcing himself to meet Hardison’s eyes. “So, pancakes?”

Hardison nods, and they head to the kitchen, leaving the bedroom and the words spoken there behind.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The hotel manages to be even more seedy in real life than it looked in the photos. Snow covers the parking lot but it can't hide the potholes where the lot has been cleared. Three cars sit in the lot, two free from snow, one buried under a blanket of it. Bare, ragged trees ring the lot, with scruffy evergreen bushes dotted around them. Cracks run through the brick facade on the building, and the wooden window frames have started to rot, dark blue paint peeling off in big chunks. The sign bearing the hotel's name -  _ Billy Goat Lodge _ , hangs at an awkward angle, the wood green with lichen. 

“Clancy is doing a real good job of keeping up the place,” Eliot mutteres sourly. He’s the rapist bastard they’re after, a seemingly respectable businessman who’s just a bit down on his luck. 

Big, wet flakes of snow spiral slowly from the grey clouds above and Eliot resists the urge to shudder, instead tugging his coat zip a bit higher to block the cold. He's wearing chinos and a button down shirt, and Sophie had insisted on draping a silk blend scarf around his neck under the new, knee length coat she'd produced with a flourish, saying it would help sell the part. 

In contrast, Parker is dressed in a long coat over a simple blue dress that's cut daringly low in the front. Her coat has a wide fur collar and she has a matching hat. He's not exactly comfortable with the roles they're playing - a cheating businessman and an escort, but he has to admit they're pretty damn perfect for the place they're heading. A supple leather overnight bag is slung over his right shoulder, filled with things they might need rather than a change of clothes.

Eliot stares at the building, feeling his lip curl in disgust. There's only a few reasons to visit a place like this, and all of them are sketchy in their own way.  _ Only cheaters and hitmen would look at this place with any joy,  _ he thinks, resisting the urge to scratch the inside of his arm, where he'd been bitten badly by bedbugs staying in a place just like this on a job,  _ before.  _ Before he met the team and started doing things for the right reasons. Back when his soul had no claim on it, bar the cost of the blood he shed. Back when he couldn’t feel a damn thing, and sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wonders if he wouldn’t be better off still feeling that way. 

Parker nudges him as they walk, and the thought vanishes, like smoke from a snuffed candle, leaving the taste of soot and ashes in his mouth. Not feeling might be  _ easier _ , but it isn’t  _ better, _ and he’s grown enough to appreciate that, even if it hurts currently. “Yeah?” he says and half turns, so he’s facing her, blinking away the odd drifting snowflake. The feel of them on his skin makes goosebumps run up his arms, and it’s not from the cold. 

“Wait,” she says and tugs him to a halt, keen eyes searching the building, brows furrowed in thought. Something has triggered her instincts, something that she can’t quite place. She needs a second to figure it out. 

Eliot stops, casting his own gaze over the building, knowing they’re probably looking for different things, but that’s okay, because their skill sets complement each other’s. A glint in a window makes him freeze, brain insisting it’s a sniper with a scope before his rational mind catches up. “Top left window?” he says, and she nods. 

“Yep, new security cameras.” Her mouth flattens into a displeased line. “Very fancy, for a dump like this.”

“Hardison, can you get them?” Eliot asks, casually turning away, using his body to block Parker’s. He’s pretty sure they’re too far away and too well wrapped up for any facial recognition to work, but he’d rather not risk it, not with what’s at stake. 

“Sorry, no can do,” Hardison says, sounding more than frustrated. “They’re on an internal circuit with no external access.”

"No problem," Parker says, "I'll disable them when we get inside."

"Nate and Sophie are already inside, posing as customers of the catering business. They'll distract the owner for as long as they can," Hardison reminds them, not that they need it. 

Eliot and Parker are posing as customers of the hotel, which should give them more access to the building. It's a last minute change and while Eliot isn't quite comfortable with the role, he knows the freedom to explore the building is worth his mild discomfort. "Got it. We'll be inside in a couple of minutes," he says, and turns towards Parker, draping his arm around her waist, spreading his fingers over her hip in a blatant, possessive show. It sends a flare of that  _ almost _ anxiety through him and he wants to back off, to give her back her space. "You okay?" he breathes instead, because they all know how she feels about physical contact. 

She rolls her eyes at him, a little, and leans into his side. "Should have done this earlier," she mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear. 

"Hmm?" he asks, eyes fixed on the front doors. He's not exactly keen to get inside, but the wind has a biting edge that's remarkably unpleasant. Even with all of his layers, he's still not exactly warm. 

"Yeah," she says, a teasing edge coming into her voice. "You're blocking the wind." 

It startles a laugh out of him and he has to choke it back as he pulls the door open, wincing as the hinges squeal, shoving down his chivalrous instincts and stepping inside first. 

The lobby is brown and lit by a pair of flickering incandescent bulbs that barely break the gloom. Dark oak panelling on the walls makes the space feel smaller than it is, almost claustrophobic. The slate tiles on the floor might have been grand, once, but now they're just scuffed and chipped. A dour man stands behind the long reception desk and they head towards him. 

"One king room, please," Eliot says and pulls a wad of bills from his pocket. It's not the sort of place where patrons pay on their credit cards. 

"The hour, or the night?" the clerk says, shoving a strand of greasy blonde hair back from his face as he leers at Parker. "Fifty bucks, either way." 

"The night," Eliot snaps, and tosses the cash on the desk, resisting the urge to knock the greasy haired bastard's teeth out of the back of his head. 

"Name?" the clerk asks and grabs the bills, shuffling them between oddly moist fingers. The paper sticks to his skin.

"Alexander and Amy Loris," Eliot supplies flatly and takes the key, glancing at the room number. 

"Condom machine by the fire door," the desk clerk calls after them and Parker shudders at the leer in his voice. 

_ Yes, I'm going to enjoy punching the smugness off his fucking face,  _ Eliot thinks and hits the elevator button with more force than it needs. 

To their right, stairs wind up to the fifth floor, covered by carpet so faded, he can barely make out the pattern. The railings around them are the same dark wood as the walls, lending the feeling of somewhere once grand that's gone to seed. It’s the perfect cover for their mark, just one of many failing hotels taking in just enough trade to keep the doors open and the lights on, for the moment, at least. 

The elevator doors grate open and they step in, waiting until they close before they speak. It smells, faintly, of damp and vomit, and Eliot swears his expensive boots are sticking to the floor. It’s the sort of place you wipe your feet on the way out, and he has to resist the urge to scratch, because he can practically hear the bedbugs scuttling about. 

"Ugh, what a creep," Parker says, gloved fingers unfastening her coat. She tugs out a tiny, wireless camera and presses it against the grimy wall, giving Hardison a clear view of anyone who uses the elevator. Apart from the new cameras, there’s no coverage in the hotel for them to use. 

“He had a very punchable face,” Eliot agrees, and jabs the button again, because the elevator is taking forever to reach their floor. They’re on the fourth, and when the doors eventually open, he steps out, tipping his head towards the stairs. 

“Interesting,” Parker says, keen eyes studying the sheets of thick plastic that have been strung from the ceiling to block access to the top floor. She positions a couple more cameras. “No dust, behind,” she says.

Eliot presses his lips together. “Means it gets used often, and they have a reason to keep it cleaner than the rest of this dump.”

"Like they're trying to hide something?" Parker says, an edge of excitement in her voice. "We should check it out."

"I think that would be a good idea," Eliot agrees, already easing the plastic sheets aside, checking for booby traps. There’s a thin wire strung across the second step, vanishing behind a flimsy panel in the wall and he frowns at it, leaning back to slip his coat off because it feels like it’s getting in his way. 

Parker takes it and his scarf, vanishing down the hall towards the room they’ve paid for and dumping them on the bed. The room is barely clean, a thin layer of dust on every surface. A glint of something from under the table makes her pause, stooping to pick it up. It’s a simple gold locket, inscribed with initials that she can’t quite make out because of the blood. She fishes a plastic bag from her coat pocket and drops it in, then examines the room more closely, spotting fresh paint on one of the walls that can’t quite hide the dark stains seeping through. 

“I’ve got bloodstains here, guys,” she says unhappily, wrapping her arms around her body. “And a locket that’s covered in blood.” 

The door swings open and she reaches for her taser. “It’s me, Parker,” Eliot gripes, but he can understand the reflex all too well. He spots the badly hidden stain straight away and frowns. “Looks like someone was slashed with a blade,” he says, eyeing the angle of the splatter. “Judging by the amount, they could still be alive,” he says, then adds, “it’s a very distinctive pattern, okay?” because he can feel Parker’s eyes on him. 

She shrugs and turns so he can unzip her dress, quickly pulling on black leggings and a t-shirt in its place. Eliot wanders over to the window to give her privacy, glancing out at a wide alley hidden from the main road by the scraggly trees and bushes. There are no streetlights, and he knows it’ll be pitch black at night. The corner of a loading dock catches his attention and he opens the window, leaning out, not liking what he sees at all. 

It’s the perfect set up to smuggle something in or out of the hotel and it makes his heart sink because he reckons what they’re smuggling is  _ people _ . “Parker, do you have a camera?” he asks, and takes it from her, sticking it to the window frame, facing outwards. “Hardison, are you seeing this?” He’s not sure what the resolution on the camera is, but it’s the best he can do for now. 

“I got it, Eliot,” Hardison says. “What are you thinking?”

“Human trafficking,” Eliot says grimly, and hears them all react over coms. “I’m thinking this is a waypoint on a trafficking route, and Clancy is skimming the  _ merchandise _ .” 

“Well that’s even more disgusting that I expected,” Hardison says. “I didn’t find any connections, but I’ll dig even deeper, see what the bastard is hiding.” Truth be told, some of his programs are still running, ferreting through the web for any scrap of information. He’s damn good, but it takes time to dig through all the information he finds. 

A scream rips through the quiet of the hotel. Eliot and Parker exchange glances and take off running towards the stairs. 


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

They reach the stairs at the same time, and Parker drops back, letting Eliot take the lead. He steps neatly over the trip wire, noting that these stairs are covered in heavy plastic sheets rather than the faded carpet like the rest of them. It’s benign enough not to rouse suspicion in the casual observer who’d probably put it down to a renovation project, but it sends a shudder of unease through him because it’s what you do if you want to keep a space free of contamination. Blood can be scrubbed off your hands, but it stains wood in a way that will never come out. He's used the same technique himself a few times, way in his past, because it  _ works _ and that doesn't bode well for whoever might be locked in the rooms above them. 

“Hold up,” he says as they reach the landing. It’s quiet, and he peeks around the corner, seeing an empty hallway, laid out like the one on the floor below, with eight rooms opening off the hall. The doors are all closed, secured with heavy black padlocks and there’s more plastic on the floor, more hanging from the ceiling so it drapes down the walls. A small pool of vivid red blood gleams wetly outside one of the doors and they creep towards it.

Parker has the lock open in seconds, hanging it on the hasp and locking it to keep it out of the way. It also means they can’t be locked in quite as easily. Her mouth is set in a grim line, brow furrowed, and Eliot can’t blame her. There’s not much he likes about this little set-up, either. 

He opens the door slowly, seeing Parker take her tazer out of its pocket. The room is bare apart from a bucket and a ragged mattress, covered in stains, on the floor. The window is cracked across the lower pane, the glass still in the frame by some minor miracle, but there's blood smeared on the glass and he mutters a curse. 

"Not good," Parker says, and they share a glance before heading back out into the hallway and on to the next room. She places a couple of Hardison's cameras as they go. "Are you seeing this?" she asks, voice low. 

"I see it," Hardison says, and types something so harshly it echoes over their coms. "Looks like a damn slaughterhouse." 

"Plastic is good for containing forensic evidence," Eliot says, watching the hall as Parker pops all seven of the padlocks open. "Old place like this probably still has an open furnace in the basement. Roll the plastic up, burn it and any evidence goes with it. It’s damn efficient, I have to give them that." 

He swings the next door open and eases inside, lifting an arm to block Parker, knowing from the smell that the person inside is beyond saving. The body is curled on the mattress, bare skin battered and bruised. Eliot puts him in his early twenties, with choppy dark hair. There's a tattoo on his left shoulder, something tribal, but Eliot can't make out the details through the blood.  _ Maybe we could have saved him, if we'd been here last night,  _ he thinks, and almost shudders as a wave of self loathing swamps him. It could be true, but he's familiar enough with dead bodies to know it properly wouldn't have made any difference. 

"Fuck," Eliot spits, anger at the senseless death burning through him like a forest fire. He steps back, bumping into Parker, who looks a little hollow eyed. "You okay?" he asks, and cups her cheeks so she can't look away. It's not something he'd usually do, but nothing about this situation is normal and he doesn't want to lose her. She's a couple of shades paler than usual, fingers moving restlessly against the lock picks still clasped in her hands. 

"Let's keep going," she says and nods sharply, heading to the next door and swinging it open before he can stop her. 

He swallows the curse that wants to escape and follows her in, staying in reach of the door, just in case. There's a woman in this room, and Eliot feels rage twist in his gut as he looks at her, because she's battered and bruised and he can't wait to meet the fucker responsible so he can dole out some punishment. She's dressed in a torn shirt and trousers that look two sizes too big for her, hanks of tangled dark hair falling into her face. Her feet are bare and are littered with shallow cuts. She's older than he expects, mid thirties if he had to guess, which surprises him a little, even though he knows people of all ages fall victim to trafficking. 

A ring has been set into the floor and the woman stands over it, holding a coil of chain in her hands like it's a weapon and not something binding her in captivity. Her wrists are chafed bloody from the handcuffs around them and despite all of that, she glares at them, desperate anger in her eyes. "If you bastards are here to kill me, just do it, will you?" she spits and that's a sentiment Eliot can relate to on a bone deep level. 

There's a point when you're being held captive that death feels like the only way out, a point where you start longing for it, because it has to be better than the reality you're currently living in. He's been there, once or twice and the words lift the hairs on his arms because he  _ knows,  _ has lived through that feeling and been lucky enough to come out the other side. 

_ The cell is freezing and he aches from the cold, muscles cramped from curling small to conserve as much body heat as possible, because the bastards took his clothes. He's bleeding from a few shallow cuts on his neck and chest, fingers throbbing from a kick when he snapped and fought back. He's pretty sure they're going to kill him, because he's causing too much trouble and he wishes they'd just fucking get on with it, put him out if his misery before he cracks and tells them something they can use. There's a point where the training gives out, because the human body can only take so much abuse, and he feels like he's reaching it. Heavy boots rattle against the stone floor outside of his cell and he gulps back the sudden surge of terror as the cell door swings op- _

He blinks back to reality, shoving the memories away, realising with a start that the footsteps are real and not just a figment of his mind. "Get her out of those chains," he snaps at Parker and presses himself against the door, twisting so he can see down the hall. 

Two men are jogging towards the room, both with inches and pounds on him, but they're slow, undisciplined and he feels his lips peel back into a feral grin. Taking them down is going to be fun. The first has a nose that looks like it's been broken multiple times already and Eliot can't resist an invitation like that. He hammers a blow into the thug's face and feels the man's nose break under his fist. Thug one drops, clutching his face with both hands, a nasty mix of blood and snot and tears smearing across his face. 

Eliot finishes the job with a knee to the gut which puts thug one down on the floor, gasping for air his broken nose and cramping diaphragm can't provide. The hitter dismisses him and turns his attention to thug two, who looks like he's had a little more training. He hangs back, keeping outside of Eliot's reach, a nasty little smirk on his face. 

"C'mon boy," Eliot draws, deliberately deepening his accent, laying the country on thick, because he's got the measure of the other man and knows it'll drive him crazy. "I'll even take it easy on you," he adds, with a smirk, crooking a finger. 

The thug flushes red with anger and rushes at Eliot, swinging a haymaker that the hitter simply side steps, booting the thug in the rump as he stumbles past, pushing off the wall with one huge hand and turning just in time to cop a punch to the throat that puts him down on the floor next to his work mate. 

More footsteps hammer along the hallway and Eliot puts his back to the wall, taking in the reinforcements with a quick sweep of his eyes. They're all armed, guns plain in shoulder holsters and the sight makes his palms itch in that familiar pull of  _ want-don't want  _ that's all too familiar by now. Guns make things too easy, too distanced and he made a vow to himself the day he checked his sidearm back into lockup, before he left the army, that he never wanted to use one again. He's broken that rule exactly once, and he's still living with the consequences. 

He flexes his fingers, chasing away the feeling and grins. "So, who wants to go first?" 


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven 

The second armed thug drops and Eliot steps over his body with grudging respect, swiping the back of his hand over his bleeding lip. They’d been well trained, armed with batons as well as guns and he’d taken a few nasty hits, can already feel the bruises starting to ache and knows he’s going to be as sore as all hell later on. He kneels, a touch stiffly, and zip ties their hands and feet together, making sure they’re all on their fronts, because he’s not overly keen to have more blood on his hands if someone chokes. Five guards in not many more minutes is quick work, and Eliot hopes he can get his people out before anyone notices the guards are missing. There’s a neat pile of weapons between two of the thugs and Eliot picks up the combat knife, slipping it through his belt. He leaves the guns, but takes the ammo, rendering them useless.

“Parker!” he calls, ducking his head inside of the door, feeling the cut in his lip open again as he speaks, licking the blood away and ignoring the way it makes his stomach roll. 

“Eliot!” She’s just inside of the door, taser in her hand, eyes just a little frantic as they dart over his body. 

He’s splattered with blood; most of it isn’t his, but some is, just not enough to concern him. There’s a couple of shallow cuts on his right arm, and a long scrape from wrist to elbow on his left that’s starting to sting like a son of a bitch. “I’m fine,” he says, because he’s upright and mobile and nothing’s broken. “But this op is blown. We need to get out of here.” He turns to the woman they’d rescued, feeling a prickle of unease as he puts his back to the door. “You’re safe now, darlin’. We’re going to get you out of here. Are there any others?”

She’s shaking, and he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or shock or some combination of both. “There was five of us, but they split us up and I haven’t seen them since I got here.”

“How long have you been here?” Parker asks, playing with her lockpick case, rolling it between her fingers. 

The woman blinks at them, looking more than a little confused. “Maybe five days? It gets hard to tell, after a while.”

The words make Eliot’s skin crawl, because he knows exactly what she means. She’s lucky, because at least the room has a window- he’s been locked in places so deep and dark there was no way to tell day from night. 

_ He thinks it’s nearly dawn, but his body clock is shot all to hell and it could be the middle of the day for all he knows. There are three rough marks carved into the wall, but he has no idea if they’re even vaguely accurate, because he only sees sunlight when his captors want him to, when they want to use it against him, want to use it as a lure to make him break. He’s resisted this far, but the thought of being thrown back in the pitch dark cell for seconds-minutes-hours fills him with a kind of visceral dread that makes the hairs stand up on his arms, makes his skin creep with a fear he thought he’d left behind in childhood. The relentless questions stop and he swallows hard, almost choking on a mouthful of his own blood. There’s a gap in his mouth where his captors had knocked a tooth out of his head, and the copper taste makes him want to gag. The biggest of them grabs his wrists, dragging him to his feet. Eliot stumbles, legs and feet numb from kneeling so long and the strain on his shattered shoulder whites out the world-- _

He blinks the memory away, the blood in his mouth from his split lip making it harder than it should be, and swipes a hand over his face to check it’s not still bleeding, trying to force the clarity he needs to get them all out of the hotel in one piece. It takes him a long second before his training falls back into place, shunting the memories back into the box where he keeps them locked away. He still has three people to account for, and he makes that his first priority. 

“What’s your name?” he asks the dishevelled woman. It’s a question he should have asked by now, and the minor lapse makes him wonder what else he’s missing. The whole con feels cursed, and there’s a nagging feeling in his gut that they’re not coming out of this one unscathed. He hates it, tries to tell himself that it’s just because of the memories the case has stirred up, but he’s had this feeling before and been right. It’s making him uneasy and he can’t wait to step into the van, put the hotel in the mirror and drive away. 

“Natalie,” she says and swipes her tangled hair back from her face with bruised and bloody hands. It’s not something he can fix right now, as much as he wants to, so it’ll have to wait until they’re somewhere safe. 

“I’m Eliot,” he says, and nods at Parker. “Parker, stay here with Natalie while I search the other rooms. As soon as I find the others, we’re out of here.” He pauses, and glances at Natalie’s bare feet. “There are guards outside. We’ll grab you a pair of their boots.” 

“I got this,” Parker says, and nods. Eliot nods back and slips out of the door, glancing at the guards to make sure they’re all still down. One is making feeble attempts to get up, and Eliot stoops, choking the man unconscious again, before he can raise the alarm. Their escape needs to be quiet, quick and clean, and having a guard hollering his fool head off won’t be any of those things. 

He ducks into the next room, coming to a quick stop when the woman on the mattress cowers away from him. The terror in her eyes makes acid rise in his throat, and he stoops, using all the things he’s learned from Sophie to appear as non-threatening as he can. 

“Easy darlin’,” he says, crouching so he’s not towering over her. “I’m here to get you out. What’s your name?” Her wrists and ankles are bound with zip ties and he kneels next to the filthy mattress, easing the knife from his belt. “I’m Eliot. Let’s get you untied, okay?” He keeps his voice low, steady, and keeps both hands in plain view, too. 

The terror in her eyes isn’t fading, and he holds his impatience firmly in check, because he knows all too well how it feels to be on the other side of the situation, unsure if the person telling you to trust them can actually  _ be trusted _ , desperately hoping it’s all not just another trick. At the same time, the clock in the back of his mind is counting steadily down, and he knows they’re running out of time. He scans her, noting the blood on the inside of her thighs, the bruises and cuts covering every inch of her skin. One eye is swollen almost shut and it makes him grit his teeth with anger that has nowhere to go. 

“I know you’re scared, but we need to get out of here,” he says and reaches towards her ankle, feeling her flinch as he gets his fingers under the zip tie and cuts it in half with the knife. Her feet are freezing under his hands. “Okay, darlin’, let me get your hands free and we can see about getting out of here.” The zip ties have cut nasty slices into her wrists and he frowns, easing the knife under the plastic, letting his free hand rest feather light on her forearm. The tie snaps, and he slips it free, sending a fresh wave of blood down her arms. She’s shaking, pupils blown wide from fear or shock or drugs, but she manages to get her feet under her after a few false starts, leaning heavily on him. 

It’s not ideal, if he has to fight, but he’s hoping to get them all out of the hotel before that becomes an issue. “Hardison,” he says softly, “I got two vict- survivors so far, and maybe another. We’re going to need EMTs. They’re pretty banged up.”

“One welcoming party, coming your way,” Hardison replies. “Nate and Sophie are out. They got the tapes- they’re  _ bad, _ man. Real bad. Nate’s handing them over to the State police.” The disgust in Hardison’s voice is clear even through the connection and Eliot can feel the echo of it in his chest. It’s all too easy to imagine what’s on the tapes and he takes a breath, forcing the thoughts away because they need to focus on getting out.

There’s a long beat of silence before Hardison speaks again. “Be careful, both of you. This dude is really bad news.”

“Got it,” Eliot says, just as the yelling starts. 


End file.
